


Bleeding

by TempoPrestissimo



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: I mean vine sex but w/e, M/M, Psychological Warfare, Tentacle Sex, for mindfucking purposes, noncon, sylvari pact commander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 16:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12844770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempoPrestissimo/pseuds/TempoPrestissimo
Summary: The Pact Commander goes scouting in the Verdant Brink. It goes badly.





	Bleeding

**Author's Note:**

> While this story is based on one of my characters and references others, you're undoubtedly here for the 'tentacle sex' tag, which definitely takes center stage. Just sit back and enjoy Mordremoth being an asshole.

Fighting in the Verdant Brink was much different than the war in the Orrian wasteland. The circumstances were much different, too. There they had been an organized team, The Pact, making plans for their slow but steady advancement on Zhaitan. Here, there was no time. Mordremoth had tanked their entire airship fleet as though it was nothing, and when the sun set the real horrors of the Brink made themselves known. Being a Sylvari was both an advantage and a detriment; he could navigate the overgrown forest more easily than his diverse teammates, but at the same time, it was Sylvari alone who could hear the call of Mordremoth inside their heads.

Some of them were overwhelmed and turned on their friends. Some of them could fight it. None of them were trusted. Even Ophyrona, one of the pact commanders, one of the people who had led them to Zhaitan's doorstep and gotten them home again. Some of his closest companions did not look at him with the same steady eyes that they once did.

So today he scouted alone. It was hard to bear the voices but harder still to bear the looks of his friends. He felt no unease in his heart. The words of the dragon were unkind and it unsettled him to hear them but they held no lure to him. They would face this foe, and the grove would be safe again. By the Pale Tree, Ascalon would be safe again. It was so far to the east and yet the monster's tendrils still infected it.

If the Sylvari had to do it alone, they would. They had been the trump card against Zhaitan, as Sylvari were impossible for the undead dragon to resurrect for its armies. They would be so again, those of them that could withstand the call.

And Dian never doubted him. In the beginning, it had only been them. If if was them at the end of things, Ophy didn't think he would complain. He was sure Dian would, but Dian loved to complain. The moa didn't understand why Telina had been so sad lately, or why Jora, his favourite Norn, hadn't been around. But he was still happy to fight mordred monsters and make friends with the Ixtils. It was an adventure to him.

And sometimes, when Mordremoth was quiet enough for him to forget, it was an adventure to Ophy too. Like they were back home, hunting Court. Home wasn't far, the Grove was only a few days travel, far too close to trouble for his heart to handle. He couldn't imagine what might happen to Caledon, to the sylvan hounds, the Mother Tree.

It was perhaps this thought that started the fall. There was scarce ground in the Verdant Brink. Bits of lost land strung together by thick, thorned mordred vines. Sometimes they moved, called by the voice of their master. Ophyrona had been quick and clever at navigating them, but with no second set of eyes to help him plan, it was only a matter of time before he faltered.

And when he fell, he kept falling, because there was no ground underneath it to catch him.

He blacked out when he finally hit the bottom, and for a short time his mind was blessedly silent.

When he awoke, there was a dull pain in his head and an agonizing one in his leg. He laid there for a moment, his eyes closed, as he tried to pull himself together. Cracking his eyes opened revealed the trench he had eventually landed in, covered in mordred vines. On one of them, a ways up, he spotted his brace. It had been ripped away from his knee in the fall and the joint was furiously unhappy from the landing.

He felt a pang in his heart; Evelyn's hard work, ruined. Still, he had survived before it. His knee had been a wreck from the day he first opened his eyes. He would manage now as he had then.

His weapons, of course, were lost to the fall. Not his magic, of which he had little. It was something, and he would find a way. Ophy struggled to his feet, hissing in pain as he put weight on his injured leg. He had not missed this disadvantage.

With a sigh, he cast his eyes skyward. It was a long fall. He was surprised it hadn't killed him. All the better, he had a team to lead. He had to find a way to get to higher ground and work his way up from there.

He did not worry much for Dianthis. He was no ordinary moa. He had traveled the length and breadth of the world and had just as much helped to slay Zhaitan as Ophy himself. He would be fine, and had probably gone back to camp. He did not think they would spare a party to find him and if that were the case, Dian may go back out himself. Either way, Ophy thought he would be safe.

So he started to walk. He was looking for a place to climb, a section of vine he thought he could tackle and use the thorns to his advantage as he tried to scale the rock.

He found a place just as the sky was starting to dim and he started to scale it. It was a struggle, especially with his knee, but he was making headway. He slipped once and cut his hand on a thorn, the damage going deep, but he did not stop. Finding stable footing, he reached up and tried to pull himself up to the next level of ground.

To his amazement, someone took his hand. For the moment he did not stop to look at who, as they were partially obscured by the rock, but he struggled up the last hurdle and they pulled him up clumsily until he collapsed on the dusty ground, out of breath but feeling accomplished.

“My thanks to you, friend, for your lucky timing.” He said. But when he turned to face them, he stopped short.

The smiling face of Emrys looked back at him. Then, the other Sylvari laughed.

“Emrys?” Ophy blinked at him in surprise. “How are you here? I thought you were back home!”

“I was. But, I got bored. Decided maybe the front lines would be more fun.” He said with a shrug. “And isn't it a good thing I did. Look at you, all broken and bleeding. What happened?”

“I fell. From much higher. Thank the pale tree, the fall should have been the end.” Ophyrona said without embarrassment or contempt. “But that should be obvious. What isn't obvious is how you got here. And down here, specifically, no less.”

“Oh, I just wandered in. Not like it's guarded or anything.” Emrys said vaguely.

He helped Ophy to his feet and kept hold of his arm when he stumbled.

“That knee of yours is a wreck, I see.” He pointed out.

“My brace broke in the fall, the vines tore it right off of me.” Ophy explained.

“How specifically inconvenient.” His friend answered, but said nothing more on the matter.

“We have to try to get to higher ground. That's where Dian was, and I know the way back to camp from there. There’ll be room for you. Unfortunately, there's a lot of that these days.” He said. His tone was still casual but there was faint sadness in his voice.

“I don't think we need to be in that much of a hurry. It seems quiet here. I think we'll be fine.” Emrys said dismissively.

But Ophy shook his head. “I disagree. This place is worse at night. We will not survive.” He started to say more but then stopped short.

“You are right about something, though. It is very quiet. It's... too quiet.”

“Look who's being melodramatic.” Emrys said.

Again, Ophyrona shook his head. “I can't hear it. The dragon, Mordremoth. I don't hear its voice.” He said.

“What? Is that a bad thing?” Emrys looked at him incredulously. “You think you'd be relieved.”

“I'm not.” Ophyrona said. “I don't like hearing it, but it hasn't stopped since we arrived. There's no reason it would have stopped now. Something is wrong. We have to go.”

“You're so stubborn.” And all at once, Ophy felt something turn in his stomach. There was something in Emrys's voice, something he couldn't place.

“Emrys?” He asked him, tilting his head. His friend turned to him, giving him a skeptical look before he drew closer. Ophy did not step back. Only moments ago, Emrys had been helping him balance and even prior he  always had a specific knack for knowing nothing about personal space. He did not move away from his friend.

And then slowly, almost thoughtfully, Emrys took his hand. The injured one, still dripping blood, and he dug his fingers into the wound.

The pain was quick and sharp and Ophyrona tried to pull his hand back but was unsuccessful. Emrys yanked him close, the pain still flaring from where he was held.

“So stubborn. And so much easier to hurt than I thought. So you're the pact commander, are you? I'm not impressed. Zhaitan must have been a disgrace.”

It was Emrys's voice but..

“You're not Emrys.” Ophy said slowly as realization dawned on him. Horror bloomed in his stomach, barely held in check by his pain. “You are not my friend.”

“No.” And Mordremoth, wearing his friend's face, smiled at him.

Ophyrona tried to twist his arm away but the creature's strength was unbelievable.

“You're not very big... even for a Sylvari...” He said, looking him up and down. Predatory eyes gleamed in a sickeningly familiar face. “Unremarkable and...-” He looked at Ophyrona's knee, “- damaged. You're no dragon killer, little weed.” It said contemptuously.

“Oh, you'll find out.” Ophyrona spat the words and twisted again. This time, he didn't pull away; he kicked  _ out _ , and tore Emrys (or the creature that looked like him) off of his body. Ophyrona staggered backwards. He looked around wildly for something, anything to use as a weapon. He found nothing.

"I know what you are, Mordremoth." His voice was steady, unshaken. "This is an illusion." Maybe part of it, maybe all of it. No way to tell, not yet. But this monster was in his head, and it was playing with him.

He watched as Emrys's body turned to him and did not so much walk forward as it stalked him, angular and dangerous. He was not fast enough to retreat, not with his leg, and Mordremoth grabbed him by the collar of his jacket.

Ophyrona struggled, but he had no leeway to strike out. Mordremoth pulled him closer, close enough that Ophyrona could feel its breath on his lips.

It was too close, too real. Those were Emrys's eyes, though they looked at him in a way that Emrys never would.

"Do I feel like an illusion, commander? Or should I say..." He leaned closer still, until he was close enough to whisper it into his ear. "Ophy."

The heat of it, the low growl of his voice, it burned its way right to the center of his fear. Ophyrona swallowed hard. He could feel his pulse racing in his veins, hear his own heart pounding. Being afraid was not going to help him survive, if he was going to survive this at all. He wasn't certain what kind of torment lay in his immediate future but he was certain he would find a way to persevere. He had to. He had to get back to his team.

Mordremoth's expression was nearly curious. Ophyrona knew Emrys's expressions at a glance and he watched as the dragon tilted his head, looking down at the Sylvari he held in his clutches. The closeness seemed almost vulgar but the way Mordremoth looked at him was so strange. And then, inexplicably, the monster leaned even forward and licked a delicate, too-warm line along Ophyrona's jaw.

Ophyrona shuddered heavily, disgust twisting through him.

“Tastes like... fear.” Mordremoth decided.

Well, he wasn't wrong.

“If you're here to kill me, you'll never have a better shot.” Far from defeated, Ophyrona's words were caustic and sharp. He had few options but he was not about to succumb to his terror. His fear was unimportant.

“I might kill you. I haven't decided yet.” Mordremoth said thoughtfully. Ophyrona tried to jerk away, get himself some room between them, but the dragon did not relinquish him. “First, commander, I am going to break you. I am going to show you how utterly foolish it was of you to ever try to stop me. I'm going to hurt you in ways you don't even know exist.” He spoke in the same rough whisper, no need to raise his voice. There was nothing around them for miles. Nothing but him.

“And then, once I've broken you down into something more pliable, I'm going to make you kill your friends. You're quite the soldier, commander. I bet you could make it through all of their defenses... all the way back to the grove.” He smiled, then, and this was the worst of it. To see that kind of smile on a face that looked like Emrys's.

“You're going to be my key to victory. But I think the road there is going to be... fun.”

Though Ophyrona was trying to pry the dragon's hands from his jacket, his grip seemed to be inhumanly strong. It took only one hand, stronger than a vice, to hold him where he was. The other brushed through the leaves that adorned his head. Ophyrona's scowl was deep, but the expression vanished when he felt that same hand roughly twist into the growth there, grabbing him and tilting his head back. What started as a cry of pain turned into a hiss when Mordremoth leaned his weight against him. His ruined knee throbbed in protest.

“I can see why he loves the sound you make. So pretty. Such a nice change from you barking orders.” It took a moment for the words to sink in, time that Mordremoth seemed content to occupy by busying his mouth along Ophyrona's neck. The Sylvari's breath came in pained little pants as he still tried to squirm away.

“W-what? What are you talking about?” He managed to get the words out despite the pain and the deep feeling of disgust as he felt the faint scrape of the dragon's teeth along his skin.

“Emrys. Your  _ friend _ . He loves the noises you make, when he gets you like this.” Mordremoth said. His words were calm and casual, as though he had no idea how upsetting they were. “He's right. It's absolutely delicious... and I can see why he likes the power so much.”

Ophyrona was so focused on the feelings of disquiet and his growing outrage over the way Mordremoth spoke about his friend that he did not see what else was happening.

“He doesn't like to admit it to himself.” And those eyes, so familiar and so foreign all at once, stopped to look at him. “He'd prefer to think of it as an act of mutual enjoyment but oh, the rush of power when you break for him...”

“You don't know that.” Acid in Ophyrona's voice, desperate but angry. “You have access to my mind, not his. You can't defame him like that!”

Mordremoth's laugh was so like Emrys's. His wild, unselfconcious cackle. It made Opyrona's skin crawl.

“You think I can't hear the grove from here? My power stretches far beyond your knowledge. I know his every secret, his every passing thought. He cares for you  _ so _ deeply. I imagine he'd be very upset to know what was passing at this very moment. And yet...” Mordremoth stepped back, releasing Ophyrona completely. The rush of relief was dizzying. “Were he to see what I will do to you, he wouldn't be able to look away.”

Maybe not, but Ophyrona could. He went to move back farther, anything to increase the distance in case Mordremoth stopped talking and started advancing again. The first step nearly toppled him over; something had wound its way between his legs and he tripped as he tried to escape. He didn't fall, however. The same vine that had entangled him (or maybe a different one, suddenly there seemed to be more), wrapped itself around his wrist and yanked him upright once again. It was quickly followed by others.

The thorns scratched him, drawing blood wherever they found skin. His armor protected him from most of it, or at least it did until they started to find their way inside.

He clawed at the ones going up his sleeves, trying to tear them out. He could feel the thorns scratch along his arms but they seemed to grow faster than he could remove them. They twisted themselves between his fingers, tightening along his arms until he could scarcely move. He could feel them snapping the straps of his armor, one of his shoulder pieces falling to the ground.

Those familiar eyes watched him struggle. Modremoth was calm, interested even, in Ophyrona's grunts of effort and groans of anguish when he could not free himself. 

“Let me go!” He shouted. Nothing else for it. He could feel blood, sticky and warm, on the inside of his clothes. Uncomfortable and disconcerting. The plethora of little cuts stung madly.

Mordremoth didn't answer him, but once he had decided that Ophyrona was suitably restrained, he stepped closer again. “I should have done this sooner, I think...maybe when you first set up camp. Taken you while you were asleep. But... patience is its own reward.” He said idly. Nothing of that seemed to be directed at Ophyrona. It was as though he was talking to himself.

Thoughtfully, he laid his hands on Ophyrona's heaving chest. Then, he started undoing his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Equal parts confusion and outrage. Ophyrona tried to struggle again, fruitlessly, but Mordremoth didn't even raise his glance.

“Well, I suppose I don't have to do it by hand... but considering that you don't intend to fix it...” He mused quietly.

He got the jacket open with little trouble, just in time to notice the vines that were tearing their way outwards from under Ophyrona's shirt.

“How convenient.” His quiet words were easy to hear even over the sound of Ophyrona's hitches of pain and the sounds of tearing fabric.

Whether it was fear or naivety, things were still not adding up to Ophyrona. He did not consider himself naive. He had seen, experienced much of the world, although he was still quite young compared to most. For the life of him (and that may very well be the cost, he thought) he could not fathom what this monster was planning.

Mordremoth did not seem to care that he wasn't keeping up.

“So much more skittish than I'd thought...” He muttered to himself, laying a hand that wasn't his on Ophyrona's chest. Under it, the Sylvari's heart beat wildly. Mordremoth's touch was warm, alive. Real. If this was an illusion, it was stronger than any Ophyrona had ever experienced.

“I can feel how deeply you fear me.” Mordremoth said. This time he was addressing him directly, and he met Ophyrona's eyes when he spoke. “Your stoic demeanor aside, it hides nothing.”

“Can you feel my hate for you as well? Or are you conveniently blind to it.” His breathing was ragged from exertion and upset, but he wasn't incoherent yet. He managed to get the words out laced with a staggering amount of malice.

“I am not deprived of any senses.” Mordemoth answered calmly. “But your anger means nothing to me.”

It would mean something if he could expel it as effectively as he normally did. Mordemoth hadn't lied about one thing; Ophyrona was exceptionally capable in the field. Were circumstances different, he could have taken this monster's head clean off.

Then again, it was an illusion. The pain made it hard to remember that, as did Mordremoth's very physical presence. Ophy wondered if that meant he could kill him, or at least break spell by attempting the same. At the moment, both were equally impossible.

“If you're trying to scare me, you're going to have to try harder.” The waiting was the worst of it. Ophyrona pulled at the vines that held his arms, scowling at the flashes of pain but otherwise settled stoically into ignoring them. “You're a fool if you think I haven't faced worse than this.”

“We’ll get there....” Mordremoth watched in absent amusement as he started to see his vines twisting up from under Ophyrona's belt. He heard a distinct snap, and the leather band was severed, drooping lazily and tugging the top of Ophyrona’s pants sluggishly downwards. 

It was only now that Ophyrona blushed. A gut reaction, beyond his control, but so satisfying to watch. The glow across his cheeks was simple but clear, unhindered by the frown he wore.  
“Getting a little closer yet?” He asked. Ophyrona didn’t answer.

Mordremoth pulled his gloves off. Ophy recognized them; Emrys was wearing the same pair last time they had seen each other. He tossed them down and pressed his hands against the exposed skin that he now had full access to. Ophyrona was bruised, and the many small cuts and scratches from the thorns were everywhere.

“Softer than I imagined you’d be…” Mordremoth said quietly. “Shouldn’t be surprised though, you’re all so soft on the inside…” Ophyrona shivered under his hands, tried to squirm away when his touch smoothed over bruises or cuts. There was no escape.   
“We both know that the armor wouldn’t have saved you.” Mordremoth sighed. His fingers streaked blood over where they travelled. “Swallow your fear, Ophyrona. Soon, you will not want to be saved.”

“I'm not waiting on a rescue.” Truth be told, he didn't even want them to try. It was too dangerous. What was left of the pact was simply not ready for this fight. It would be a massacre if they even tried to save him. 

“I wonder, if they sent the reavers to rescue you… you'd have to watch them break, and I could have them do this for me. But, strangely… I'm enjoying myself.” He seemed to toy with the idea, and then discard it. This was too delicious to pass up.

That shouldn't be possible. Mordremoth didn't even think like a person did. Wasn't even capable of it, supposedly. But there was a familiar cast to his eyes, a lustful glint. Ophyrona recognised the signs from his liaisons with his friend; the glow of his skin, the flush in his cheeks, the small, calculating little smile. 

This shouldn't have been possible.

His hands went lower, slipping under where Ophyrona’s pants hugged his hips. It pulled a sound from Ophyrona’s lips that was deeply ashamed. He didn't understand the nuance of what was happening but he grasped the most basic, primal concept. This was invasion and invalidation and violation. Some part of him wondered if it would be worse if he understood. As it was, he didn't have the option. 

“More like that, just like that…” Mordremoth breathed the words. No threat in his voice now but it didn't need to be, not with the thorns digging into Ophy's skin. “I want to hear you. He's right, it's worth every little noise…”

“I won't-.... I-” Mordremoth wrapped his fingers around Ophyrona’s cock, soft and sensitive. Ophyrona sunk his teeth into his lip, sharp enough to bruise, maybe sharp enough to draw blood. 

“You won't have a choice. I'm going to fill you until you can't think of anything but my voice.” His fingers twitched, tightening for just a moment. The vines pulled at his clothes, opening him more to Mordremoth’s touch. 

Some of these vines didn't have thorns. Some were smooth, slick and sticky where they crawled across Ophy's skin. He shuddered, shaking his head fitfully in futile anguish. “You're so sensitive. Every nerve alights so readily.”  He mused. “Your own body is going to help me break you down.”

It was a strange sensation. The vines, twisting and searching, wrapped themselves around Mordremoth's fingers and Ophyrona’s reluctantly hardening cock. The Sylvari was shaking, his breath coming in unsteady gasps. The vines didn't care at all for his discomfort. 

He almost didn't feel himself being breached at first, so hesitant and unobtrusive were the vines. It did not last. The burn, the stretch was entirely foreign to him and he groaned inwardly. They didn't push far enough to hurt him. The vines seemed to know and understand his limits better than be did. 

They squirmed inside of him, an utterly indescribable feeling, and not entirely a comfortable one. Mordremoth's own breath was growing short, even if Ophyrona was a little distracted to notice it. 

He had set out to make this enjoyable for himself. He hadn't counted on how truly enjoyable it would be. 

“I can see why he's thought about this so much. Never actually pursued it, but he's thought about it more than he'd care to admit…” Mordremoth chuckled. Even in his distress, Ophy had no trouble figuring out who he meant. Emrys. Of course. “You see, he thought you might want to save your first time for someone special. More special than him, anyway. But while all your comrades spend the war seeking any comfort they can find, that's never been the way for you. So, here we are…. Is this special enough, Ophy?”

“Don't… don't c-call me that…” His voice shook. No blood from his mouth yet, not that he hadn't put in a good effort being quiet. A turn of the vines inside him and he whined sweetly. 

Mordremoth hushed him. His hands were warm where they touched him and Ophyrona's body, so exhausted and damaged, craved the attention. 

Arousal was  _ pleasant _ . Warm and needy, it crept its way through him. Soon he was no longer straining against his bonds but writhing, breathless and weak, trying to get more of that sensation. 

Arousal wasn't new to him. He wasn't quite that naïve. But this was different somehow. It was worse. He didn't even have the capacity to be sick with himself. There was nothing but that heat coursing through his veins. 

Mordremoth pressed close, lover-close, his still-clothed form leaning against every squirm and twitch of Ophyrona's body. He breathed in every anguished sound that fell from the Sylvari 's lips. His own desire was as compelling as it was unusual, a product of his own creation. But it was undeniable, unquenchable... or perhaps it  _ could _ be satisfied. He felt the pull inside of him. The need for completion. Ophyrona's body was good for more than making war, it seemed. There was something deeply, inarguably rewarding about this venture. 

“So delicious…” His mouth licking along the fluttering pulse lines of Ophyrona's throat. 

“Stop…” Even Ophyrona’s pleadings were weak. The vines inside him had gone past the point of discomfort. He was opened, vulnerable, and where they twisted inside him did not hurt but instead sent waves of knee-weakening pleasure through him.  It was too much, the pressure being incomparable to anything he had felt before. But his body pressed back against it, desperate for more. 

Mordremoth laughed again, but there was a waver to it. His own desire was not without it's noticeable effects. “You don't want me to stop. You want satisfaction.”  Another laugh. This one was wilder, edged in a understated hysteria brought on by lust. Mordremoth’s lips brushed Ophyrona's ear as he spoke again. “Just like you don't want the war to end. You're only useful when there's conflict. You have no idea what you'll do with yourself when it's over. Sometimes, you think maybe it will be better if you die in the field.” 

Mordremoth, with some reluctance, pulled his hands away from Ophy's erection. The vines took over with enthusiasm. His vines. Stroking and teasing, coaxing out drips of precum. He was so close.

Mordremoth cradled Ophyrona's face in his hands. “I will give you purpose. I will give you meaning. Fight for me. You will never want for orders.”

The hatred and vitriol that tried to burst into life in Ophyrona's chest was smothered, drowned by his need. 

“You're so close. Just give yourself to me, and all will be well again.” He purred the words. Emrys's voice in his ear but Mordremoth's words. He was so close. His body was pent up, twisted and tense. 

But he couldn't answer. Couldn't make his mouth form the words. Mordremoth laughed, quietly, victoriously. He wrenched Ophyrona's orgasm from him, dragging him over the edge and watching, feeling as he cried out, his body shuddering and shaking as he came. 

And when Mordremoth sighed, it too had a sense of finality to it. His own satisfaction stole his breath, shook him to his core. Quieter, but no less rewarding. This had been a  _ very _ good idea. 

Ophyrona hung limp from his vines, half-conscious and worn down to nothing. He was covered in sweat and blood and his own slick mess. Now was the time. Now, when he was too exhausted, too overpowered to fight any longer. Mordremoth would have his victory.

But things were never so easy.

A shout drew both their attention. A victorious cry, powerful and loud. Ophy barely had the strength to raise his eyes to see what the cause was.

And then the strangest thing happened. He woke up. That was incomprehensible, as he hadn't been unconscious. But he blinked and one moment he was hanging from Mordremoth's thorns and the next he was laying on his back on the hard, sunbaked rock of the brink.

Jora was standing over him, and immediately his vision twisted and he felt sick to his stomach. With all the energy he could muster, he rolled himself over, propped himself up on one shaking arm and he vomited. Nothing much came of it but a mouthful of bile, but it made him feel better.

“Yeah, there will be more where that came from. Judging by all the blood you hit your head pretty good. You'll probably be concussed for a few days.” The norn said matter-of-factly. The vomiting didn't seem to phase her at all. 

Ophy sat again, clumsily, and reached for his head. Sticky, half-dried blood came off on his fingers. There was a pool of it where he had been laying. He blinked up at Jora dizzily and Dian was quick to come to his side. Between the two of them, they helped him to his feet.

His knee throbbed in sharp, sobering agony.

“How long was I out?” He asked when he could finally speak again. Going was slow, as he was barely able to stand and had to be supported by Dian so they could make their way back to camp. The moa took to the job with vigor, and cawed at him every time he even thought about supporting his own weight.

Jora shrugged. “No idea. Looks like you fell. Dian came and got me and we headed back immediately. Figured you'd be alright. You're pretty hardy, all things considered.”

She didn't sound worried and it wasn't in her character to be. That was a relief.

“Few days rest and you'll be back in the fray. Get Ev to make you another brace too” Jora shrugged. “I'm sure she'll be happy for the break from the salvage work.”

The war. Ophyrona looked down at himself. Bruised and battered, but whole. He ached in ways that should have been inexplicable, but he remembered. It never happened, but he remembered. 

“A few days rest. I'll be glad to get back into the field.” He said.

And, with the quiet, bitter anger that now sat in his heart, he meant it. 


End file.
